It Takes a Village
by RageFeline
Summary: A series of loosely connected stories about Firo's childhood and his mother. Claire and Luck, as well as the Martillos, will probably appear later.  Chapter 1: Firo expects the worst from two strange men  Warning: Violence, cynicism, etc.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Baccano!, and, by extension, any characters, events, etc.

This story is speculation based off of information from the light novel translations and information available to me, the conditions of the time period and the psychology of the characters. I have tried to be as accurate as possible in the probable events. Speculation on Firo's mom (though there's virtually no information on her) just fascinates me, so that's where I'll start.

_1913_

These streets were no place for a woman. Dirt huddled in every crevice and provided the only carpet most of the area's resident's would ever know. Softness had no place in their lives. Knives gleamed in shaded alleys and children shouted as the hot sun beat down on their play. If it could be called playing, as they were fueled by the violence they experienced daily. Cops and robbers would sometimes explode into a beatdown while the kids with tamer games would creep away and cover their ears.

She wove her way through ragged carts and people as she wondered if it was foolish to walk about so openly with an infant. There were other mothers out and about, but they seemed to blend with the area. She reminded herself that this was her neighborhood now, and she would have to blend in, too. There was no way she could afford not to. Her family had made it clear she could expect no help from them. Her few friends... She was too ashamed to let them see her. All that was left to her was a world of strangers and shadow and her little boy. In some cruel twist of fate, her provider had been taken all she had was an utterly dependant creature to comfort her.

The daylight made the place less scary. She held her fidgeting baby closer and tried to suck some light from the sun. She could use some optimism. Even being employed, the specter of tomorrow was no friend. Little job security was available fro a young woman in menial factory work, especially one who had to snatch moments to feed a baby that her employers thought was born out of wedlock. Which made sense, as she'd regretfully followed her deceased husband's order to sell her wedding ring so their savings wouldn't evaporate too quickly.

There was still money, she reminded herself. He hadn't had much after fleeing Italy, but he'd found a job before he even met her. As the cancer creept through his lungs and was repeatedly dismissed as 'just another bad cold' he'd built up all he could. They'd expected a comfortable life as they married, but after the illness didn't fade, they visited a doctor and found the truth. By then, it had been too far along that even his best efforts to fight it were fruitless. He'd died before their child was even born and she went through labor alone, still a mourning wife.

There was still money, but even with scrimping back when she was too weak after the birth to work, a lot had gone. She'd moved into the cheapest neighborhood she could find and sold all she could, but it still wasn't enough. Just as bad, the struggle of balancing baby and job were already wearing her down. Sundays like these were the only times she could recharge.

But she was determined. She'd stared down her parents as they scowled at her soul mate and cast her away. As soon as she felt well enough, she'd scoured the city for a job, willing to take everything, and found one. It was horrible, in a place as dirty as her new neighborhood, with long hours and draining work. She'd stick through it, simply becuase it was necessity. Monotony and discomfort didn't matter anymore, they were her life. She would survive, at least until her little baby could on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Fast forward! Martillos appearing sooner than expected. Note: Mr. Yaguruma is also written as "Yagulma" in the novels. I just used the spelling that should be closer to the pronunciation. Sorry for the extreme delay and shortness of the chapter.

1921

The aging man swept through Maiza's open doorway and turned to face him.

"I seem to have acquired a child."

Maiza looked back and forth between his old friend and the little boy at Mr. Yaguruma's side. The child was a skinny, ragged thing, with scuffed and bruised pale skin and windblown hair that made Maiza's inner neat-freak wince. The cold had sucked the color from his face. It was clear why, his shoes were falling apart, his pants were sloppily patched and in Yaguruma's tight grasp was his threadbare shirt, no coat. Out of his wide brown eyes- watering slightly, with tears barely held back- shot the most amusing, ineffectual death glare Maiza had ever received. "I see that..."

Yaguruma continued looking at him expectantly and Maiza put a hand to his forehead. They were close friends, and the man was wise. His unconventional methods and behviors were just a bit... worrying. Maiza asked the necessary question, "And how did you get him? ...Not just taking him, I hope?" As far as he knew, Yaguruma hadn't engaged in kidnapping, but one never knew. The rules of society were often ignored by him.

"Oh, nothing illegal. What would I want with one anyway?" He growled, "Little brat tried to pickpocket me."

Maiza smiled, his friend's grudging kindness both amused and attracted him to the elderly immigrant. "And you want me to take care of him?" He knew the man did not trust himself to take care of a child, and he couldn't say he thought it would be a good idea either. Things like empathy and caring weren't his forte.

The man nodded and held the little boy by both shoulders in front of Maiza. "He needs to be patched up. And put somewhere he can't bother people."

Maiza watched the little boy bite his lip nervously and decided it was time to step in before Yaguruma scared him to death. The poor thing probably thought he was going to be horribly mutilated- no telling what Yaguruma had said to him on the way to Maiza's apartment.

Maiza bent down so that their faces were on the same level. "Hey there. What's your name?"

In response, the child recoiled, pressing himself against Yaguruma's legs. With a sigh, Maiza took his hand, ignoring the squirms of protest and led him to the kitchen. Yaguruma watched, leaning on the doorway.

XXXXX

Firo had no idea what the hell was going on. One minute, he was reaching into that old man's pocket, the next, he was being pinned to the ground by a big, heavy boot. He struggled, trying to stave off what he was absolutely sure was death or at least a good beating, but it didn't help. The old man was strong and Firo was at his mercy.

And now he was in an amazingly clean and warm apartment with a bizarre, smiling man who spoke softly and was-

_Oh god._

He was buttering bread. Firo held himself perfectly still and tried to keep from staring holes through the back of Maiza's head. Was this the torture that old man had been talking about? He'd thought he heard something about being beaten to death with his own liver... But this was a whole lot worse to the scrawny, starving child.

A plate was set in front of him. Firo repeatedly shifted his gaze from Maiza, to the food, back to Maiza, then back to the food. "Wh-wha..?"

The man smiled encouragingly, "Go ahead, eat up."

Was it a trick? Was it poisoned? Was this Maiza guy going to use the theft of food as an excuse to kick his ass? With those thoughts swirling around his head, Firo cautiously took a bite, then wolfed the rest down.

"Slow down," the man urged with a slight smile as the last bit disappeared into Firo's mouth. With a laugh he shook his head, "I'll give you more later. It's best to be eased back into this." Firo kept his mouth shut. The edge had been taken off his hunger and just the promise of more food was enough to hold him steady and even erase some of his suspicion. He nodded and swept his eyes across the kitchen back to where the old man was standing. He still wanted to keep an eye on that one. The old man stayed impassive and Firo turned his attention back to the man with the food, who seemed to be talking to himself.

"...probably a bath." He saw Firo's eyes on him and the corners of his mouth turned up again- did this guy _ever_ stop smiling? "We'll get you cleaned off, would you like that?"

The offer was tempting. Firo'd grown use to the grime clinging to his skin and clothing, but the neatness of the apartment had made him conscious of how filthy he was. "Yes..." He answered cautiously, meeting the man's eyes fully for the first time. He quickly added, "Please."

Off to the side, the old man grunted, "And here I thought you were just a little barbarian." Firo's head snapped around and he opened his mouth to retort. A hand on his shoulder- gentle, but still startling- made him flinch and quiet down as the nicer man stepped forward. Instead of rebuking either one of them, he began conversing quietly with the old man, who nodded once and left as the nice man gave a wave and parting 'thank you.'

As way of explanation, he turned to Firo, "That's Mr. Yaguruma. He's going to get you something to wear that doesn't look like it's about to fall apart." He paused as Firo looked down at his clothes. They weren't _too_ bad, and he was worried about how exactly these guys expected him to pay them back. Loan sharks, he decided with the unpleasant buzz of anxiety in his stomach.

He looked back at the man, firmly setting his jaw, and breaking free from the look of wide-eyed fear that had been stuck on his face. This guy had seemed nice, which was confusing, but now that Firo knew his game he knew he had to look as tough as possible. Even if it was a losing battle. "What do you want from me?"

Maiza blinked a few times, taken aback before the smile slid back onto his face, "We want you to accept our help."


	3. Chapter 3

There were times when Mrs. Prochainezo had to force her mind away from wondering if life had it out for her. She had traded off a staid and muted life with her parents - aging British immigrants- to be the wife of a retired Camorrista. It promised a vibrancy her old life had lacked, even if his complicated job situation meant it would not always be comfortable. That was a risk she would take for what her heart took two years to acknowledge as love. And while she carried a healthy disdain for criminals, she eventually learned to shut her eyes when faced with his past.

But he vanished too. His departure was unlike her parents, as they slipped away from distance. It had been all too close, the sudden realization that the persistent pain and sickness was not something he could recover from. He wasted away right in front of her eyes.

It all made her wonder how long her baby would stay with her. He was a tiny thing- weaned on the dregs of a wet nurse's milk- and prone to sickness. Perhaps he would slip away just like the others. Each day when she came to pick him up after work she rejoiced that there was still breath in his body. She wouldn't be alone, even if only for a few days or hours more.

And as years went by, he grew and survived. Malnourished, filthy and small, like most children in their area, but alive. It disappointed her a bit that she could see none of his father in him. His fair skin, light brown hair, and puppy-dog eyes were all hers. The stoicism that settled on his face was reflected from her own: exhausted after long hours of work and the struggle to survive, and sad from dusting broken dreams that never came true.

Perhaps one day her husband's wide smile would surface on his face, but she hadn't seen it yet, because her child mostly remained stubbornly stoic.

The only remnant of his father he inherited was criminality; the one thing she had hoped Firo wouldn't have. She had been raised by a law-abiding family and had tried to offer the same environment to her son. Such an attempt was fruitless in the rotten Hell's Kitchen neighborhood, but she still allowed herself a glimmer of idealism. Firo was severely chastised for every trinket and scrap he fished out of someone's pocket or snatched from an unguarded market stall.

At times it broke her heart to smack the morsels he brought her out of his hand. He would bounce over to her, hands carefully clasped around his newest find, eyes lit with something like pride. Without fail she would dash his hopes for congratulation or approval.

Or the other aspect of his amorality: fighting. As the Great War boiled on the fringes of their little world Firo grew and got into more scrapes than ever. Nothing she could say, no punishment she could give would keep him from coming home bruised and bloodied but triumphant with anger momentarily quenched.

_It's all I'm good for_, he insisted, and that upset her more than anything.

But soon she found herself more tired than ever, too exhausted to sort right from wrong.

**XxXxxXxX**

Author's Note: Sorry for such a long delay and a boring update. I will be rather irregular with updating for this story, but I promise it won't be abandoned. Next chapter will most likely be Firo's view on these events.


	4. Chapter 4

And I'm finally back. Like I said, updates will be irregular, but I'm going to try updating more frequently, or perhaps give more substantial updates.

One thing I found interesting from the novels is how (particularly in the Alice in Jails arc) it notes just how much of a constant factor fighting- or just being strong- has been in Firo's life. I wanted to focus on that for this update. The last few have been more introspective than actual story, but expect some action next time around. I'm also experimenting with meshing narrative into a voice closer to the character's, so there will be sentence fragments, run-ons, etc.

Warnings for child abuse and a rather dark thought process

XXX

Birthdays didn't get much of an emphasis in the Prochainezo household. Firo didn't know his mother's birthday, and she never willingly surrendered the information. Firo was content to simply show his appreciation for her whenever it came to mind; perhaps with a sloppy drawing (crayons and paper pilfered from school) or a treat with mysterious origins (though that was rarely met with gratitude).

Firo's birthday would be a little pocket of sweetness in an otherwise bitter time. Celebrated on Sunday, her only day off, Mrs. Prochainezo would take her son out to the movies. For a little while they could be distracted by the wild dreams of the screen.

Much as Firo liked that precious time, it wasn't the most significant thing about birthdays. What made birthdays important was the knowledge that he- though only a day older than yesterday- was growing up. Getting stronger, he hoped, and moving that little step closer to leaving childhood behind.

He hated being a child, and small for his age on top of that. It gave people an excuse to knock you down, ignore you or look down on you.

_Children should be seen and not heard._ All that meant to Firo was that they could beat you up as everybody ignored your cries for help.

That was fine with him. He'd long since learned that nobody could save you but yourself. And that was why he wanted to grow up so badly; he'd be stronger and bigger and that much better at protecting himself. And others, too, he wouldn't abandon his one family member just because that was how other people got ahead. Firo knew he could support them both. If only he was a little better...

Of course, he couldn't just let people step on him until he was an adult, so Firo devoted his spare moments to becoming stronger despite his scrawniness and youth and other "flaws" people just couldn't wait to pick on him about. He was fast and dexterous, and surprisingly strong for a small kid. Firo could be vicious, too, and he learned to use that whenever the situation required it.

Perhaps schoolyard fights weren't the best place to share the lessons you learned from the school of hard knocks. What Firo classified as self-defense the teachers called "deliberate malice," "sadism," "horrifying," and a bunch of other long words that confused Firo and made his mother angry at him in meetings with teachers and distressed parents.

He couldn't help it, could he? They were_ asking_ for it. And there was no way he would find somebody to challenge him who wouldn't paint the pavement with his blood. Nobody wanted to be friends with the overly confrontational kid, and for a while he thought he'd never find luck with a sparring partner.

And one day, he found people who could prove him wrong...


	5. Chapter 5

_1718_

"My name's Claire." The red-haired boy said it as if it was a grand announcement. His audience merely gave him a confused blink. What a disappointing reaction; clearly more effort was needed. He plopped himself down next to the boy, managing to squish onto the same chair as the other boy quickly moved over, making sure that even their clothing didn't brush. At least the kid was polite, even if he did look rather annoyed with his new seatmate. Claire knew that it wasn't the company that bothered him, or at least it wouldn't be that when Claire was through with him.

"What's your name?"

The boy answered reluctantly, "...Firo."

Claire smiled and leaned in closer. Now that the names had been shared, it was perfectly acceptable for them to demonstrate the familiarity of friends. "So, listen. The other day I was walkin' home from school and I saw this great old abandoned warehouse! It'd be the perfect place to hang out, don'cha think? I could drop tomatoes on people who walk by! Or maybe-"

Claire's unfortunate audience was saved by the sudden appearance of another boy in the classroom doorway. Firo recognized his as a classmate, one of the smart kids, though now he looked unusually flushed and disheveled, and he was panting heavily. Two much larger boys stood behind him, but quickly left once they had deposited their little brother at his classroom.

The new boy- Luck was his name, Firo remembered- marched, pouting over to Claire. "Keith was pretty mad about you takin' off like that."

With a wave of his hand, Claire brushed off Luck's complaint. "He's always steamed about something or other."

"Yeah, well, they made me run to school 'cause of you." Luck gave a long-suffering sigh that's strange coming from a boy his age. Then that he noticed the boy slumped next to Claire. He wrinkled his nose in thought. "Do I know you?" He could recall the boy as one of those children frequently in trouble.

Excited to show off his find Claire waves a hand theatrically, mussing Firo's hair. "This here is Firo. He's in your class. You should get to know each other."

Young he may be, but Luck's been well trained to be polite. He smiled and offered a hand to Firo, who slowly took it for a handshake. "Luck Gandor. Pleased to meet you."

Firo nodded and gave an obedient reply. "Nice meetin' you too." He doesn't want to show it, but he's feeling a little intimidated by these two. Claire's energy and Luck's friendliness feel strange as they surround him. But it's not entirely unpleasant.

Claire suddenly springs up from Firo's seat. "Now that you two are friends, I'm off to class. Take care of the runt, will ya, Luck?"

In the greatest display of emotion Luck had seen from Firo yet, the boy leaps up after Claire, "Don't call me a runt, godda-" But Claire's already out of the room and into the hallway, just as the teacher sweeps into the room and quells the buzz of chattering students.

Normally, Firo would give chase regardless of the teacher's presence, but something holds him back. He crosses his arms and plops angrily back into his seat. There's a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to see Luck taking the chair next to him, a pleasant smile on his face. Strangely, Firo feels the corners of his mouth suddenly lighter.


End file.
